


The Long Week

by mothTropic



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Canon Semi-Compliant, Gen, Paranoia, Sanity Issues, its about bill but its more about stanford, light injury mentions and i mean light its like one sentence people, pre-portal stanford, this is right after ford confronts bill abt the portal, very sfw, who needs sleep when you have coffee
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-04
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:42:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22112044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mothTropic/pseuds/mothTropic
Summary: There is a week between Stanford's decision to shut down the portal and his brother's arrival at his Oregon home.He's the only person he can trust, he's the only person in the house, and a malign dream demon may or may not be trying to mess with him. Meanwhile, he has to come up with a plan to stop Bill, figure out what to do with his research, fend off demon magic that may or may not be there, and not go insane in the process.It's going to be a long week.
Relationships: Bill Cipher & Ford Pines, Bill Cipher & The Author | Original Stanford Pines
Comments: 6
Kudos: 12





	1. Monday

“A deal’s a deal, Sixer. You can’t stop the bridge between our worlds from coming, but it would be fun to watch you try!” 

_Well._

Stanford Pines sat nervously on the couch in the second floor of his basement, nestled between a pile of sheets and a large crystal that took up most of the sofa, and leafed frantically through his journals. _Gnomes, zombies, eyeball bats…_ There had to be something in there he could use. 

He’d shut down the portal already - that had been his first, panicked, step. But it was still there, lurking in his basement like a bad omen. Its lights were still burned into his mind. _Forget all that_ , he reminded himself. _You’re a scientist. Focus on solutions._ He flipped past a drawing of a squash with a human face, and ostensibly, emotions, and onto the entry of the stomach-faced duck, a unique animal with a stomach for a face that was… useless against Bill. Why had he spent so much time on these harmless cryptids? He could have already stopped Bill for good, if he hadn’t been obsessing over these little mysteries. But then, he wouldn’t be up against Bill in the first place if he hadn’t fallen for his flattery. 

Ford sure was dumb for a genius. Here he was now, hyperventilating on a couch over problems he’d been tricked into creating. He didn’t know what scared him more: The idea that Bill had been trying to bring about an apocalypse, or that it had almost been his fault. _If it hadn’t been for Fiddleford…_ he didn’t know what would have happened. 

Well. He was a scientist. There was no point in what “would have happened”, the question was indubitably “what should he do now?” And even if he weren’t a scientist… Stanford shuddered involuntarily. Some things weren’t meant to be thought about. He’d only caught a glimpse of Bill’s weird-looking rift, but it was enough to be, well, nightmare fuel. 

“Nightmares,” repeated a faint, echo-y voice from nowhere in particular. That sounded like Bill. That _was_ Bill, what the hell, he wasn’t supposed to be able to take form if Ford was conscious, what the hell was he- 

“Bill!” Stanford yelled, instinctively reaching into his coat for his crossbow and pointing it around the empty room. “I told you, the deal’s off. You can’t come into my mind any more!” Ford backed up, letting the debris on the couch form comforting barriers on either side of him. He squinted down the sights of his crossbow, waiting for a sudden flash of yellow. It wouldn’t help, he knew, but it was the closest thing to a weapon he had. It made him feel better. _Note to self,_ he thought. _Get actual weapon._ Ford took a deep breath, fully prepared to shoot Bill the second he showed his backstabbing, well-dressed face. But he never showed. 

“...Bill?” Ford asked, after almost a minute had passed. He reluctantly put away his crossbow and looked around, sitting so that his head was outside the couch trash. The room was as empty as it ever was. There was no sign of Bill, not even as a triangular shadow on the wall. “Of course,” he muttered. “Playing games with me, are you?” He should have expected this, shouldn’t have thought Bill would just let him shut down the portal and get away with it.

But then, this wasn’t Bill’s style at all. Atmospheric whispering? He had to admit, he’d been frightened, but there was no _style_ to it, no _presentation._ Where were the blue flames? Where were the threats? As much as he didn’t want to admit it to himself, the evidence was overwhelming. This wasn’t Bill’s doing. 

“Keep it together, Stanford,” he muttered to himself. Because talking to yourself was such a good sign. “He’s not here.” Ford calmed, momentarily. That was normal, right, hallucinations? Just little ones, of course. That was normal. And he was living in Gravity Falls, he rationalized. Anything could happen here. 

“Anything,” echoed the tinny, not-real voice again, and Stanford slammed himself violently into the couch in a bid for cover. Where was he, where was he, if Ford could just get his eyes on Bill, he could at least try and- 

There was a sudden realization. “Oh, right,” said Stanford to no one in particular. Because there was no one there, was there? He always was too smart for his own good. He’d managed to convince himself Bill was back, to… he didn’t know. ...Threaten him? Take him out of the picture? Whatever. Stanford assumed a normal seating position - well, not a normal seating position. Both feet flat on the floor, knees bent, sitting like a person is supposed to sit. A sane man’s seating position. A position for someone whose life wasn’t rapidly spiralling out of their hands. He picked one of his journals back up, and began to flip through it. He was fine. He was going to find something in his own research that would help him stop Bill, and then he’d move on with his life. He forced himself to read an entry on ghosts, feeling his breathing slow. He must have spent another ten minutes like that, just trying to steady himself, before he reached the end of his third journal and slammed it shut. No help at all. Just as he’d thought. Not even the entry on Bill had anything useful to say. 

_Bill has proven himself to be one of the friendliest and most trustworthy individuals that I've ever encountered in my life. What a guy! I honestly can't trust him more. Not evil in any way, Bill is a true gentleman._

Ha. It was amazing to him that he’d ever thought that way, but he clearly had. A compliment or two, that was all it had taken, and he’d trusted the “Being With Answers” without a second thought. He’d been waiting his whole life for a moment like that, for someone to descend upon him from the heavens and tell him he was smart. And when it had finally happened, he’d been willing to ignore almost anything for the sake of the lie. 

At the time, he’d hoped that entry would be something he could look back on fondly once he’d won his nobel prize. Now the entry just infuriated him with the full weight of how stupid he’d been. Ford removed a pen from one of his pockets, and with a vigorous determination, scribbled out his previous entry. He clicked the pen thoughtfully. “Let’s see…” 

_BILL CAN’T BE TRUSTED!_

“That’s more like it.” If only he’d realized it sooner.

_Beware Bill. The most powerful and dangerous creature I've ever encountered. Whatever you do, never let him into your mind._

Bit too late for that. On that note, Stanford shut the journal, looking around the room. Whatever he’d been looking for, he wasn’t going to find it in his own research. But what about someone else’s? This floor had belonged more to Fiddleford than to himself. Maybe he’d left Ford a note or something after he’d stormed off? 

Right off the bat, he saw a pile of manilla folders (all his, portal blueprints), a stack of neatly folded shirts (Fiddleford’s, though he doubted there would be anything relevant in them), and a particular chunk of scrap metal he’d scavenged from the alien spacecraft that hadn’t quite fit in the portal’s construction. Eventually, he found himself looking at a support beam, on the other side of the room. An image of an eye, embedded in a triangle, was carved into the beam in chunky slashes. _Figures._ He _must have carved it when he was… possessing me._ The thought that Bill had had a knife while in Ford’s body alarmed him, though. Bill didn’t have very much regard for Ford’s physical well-being, a trait he’d previously thought of as careless. Now it was almost malicious. Ford could very easily see himself - controlled by Bill, of course, plunging a knife into his own arm. 

“Wow, Sixer.” He could almost hear his own voice, made strange by Bill’s characteristic echo. “You sure do have a lot of blood in here.” 

How often had Bill had a knife? Why hadn’t he ever noticed? Stanford shook his head. The things you ignore when you want something. There was something else about the carving that bothered him, though. The eye seemed to be looking at him. The logical part of him knew it wasn’t, really, it just seemed that way, it was an eye and he was scared and he’d always had an “imagination”. But the other part of him could feel a presence in the carving of the eye. It was like Bill himself was there, engraved in the wood. Staring. Ford stared back. His gaze faltered. 

“Right.” Stanford stood up, and marched himself over to the carving, kneeling to examine it. _See? It’s just a carving_ . His fingers brushed the engraving, feeling nothing more than a slight inscription in a wooden beam. Nothing to worry about. _You’re fine, Stanford. Just a carving._

He wasn’t convinced. The carving continued to look balefully up at him with its straight line of a pupil. He suppressed a shiver. _It’s not him, it’s not him_ , he reminded himself. _You’re imagining things_. But that did little to assuage his fears. 

_Whatever_ , he finally concluded. _Maybe it is Bill, maybe he is watching_. Taking out a screwdriver from his pocket, he dug it into the wood and crossed out the eye with two deep, heavy scratches. _Well, he can’t watch me any more._ Stanford stood. “Hear that? You’re not- you’re not welcome here. You monster.” He announced this to the room at large, just in case _he_ was listening. Ford was relieved, for a moment. He couldn’t be watched through the carving, the eye was crossed out. He was safe. Then, he turned around to face the rest of the room and saw his Bill altar.

Ford looked at the altar, and Bill looked back. There was an oil painting of Bill, in a sexy pose - obviously homemade, though he didn’t remember making it. The painting hung near a small, golden statue of Bill, holding among other things a sword and a skull. He gleamed lavishly above a rug, which was decorated with yet another stupid Bill. Above the rug, several detailed tapestries of Bill, hands on fire, staring down at whoever was meditating. Tapestries were usually considered a silent medium, but Ford knew that if the Bill in the tapestry could talk, he’d be cackling. The Bills did not move, but Ford got the feeling they’d all turned to look at him. Add that to the list of mistakes he’d made. Worshipping Bill, but specifically, building that altar. What a nice, thoughtful way to ensure Bill’s constant presence in his life. Well, not any more! 

On that note, Ford grabbed some sheets from the couch and marched over to the altar. He glared at the inanimate collection of Bills, as if hoping to intimidate them in some way, and angrily flung a sheet over them. A shelf full of prisms and a golden statue vanished under a boring cloth. One less uninvited observer. A painting was unceremoniously taken down and covered up in much the same way. Then went the tapestries. The rug was rolled up and stuffed in a corner. Pretty soon, the whole basement was devoid of Ciphers. No more eyes, watching him and doing whatever else eyes did. The basement was still messy, but it was _Stanford’s_ basement now. Not some dream demon’s. 

Finally, he could come up with a way to stop Bill. 

A way to stop Bill, a way to stop Bill… There wasn’t a way to stop Bill, was there? Not forever, at least. He’d find someone else to manipulate, of course he would, and the cycle would repeat itself. He could demolish his portal, of course, _should_ demolish his portal, but that would just delay the inevitable. Still, there were certainly… actions he could take. His research was too dangerous to keep around, at least the parts of it concerning the portal. It had taken almost a year to get it all together, and he certainly didn’t want the next guy Bill tricked to find his journals and get to skip a year of hard work. No, he’d have to do something with his journals. 

Ford dug his hands into his pockets, and found himself gripping his lighter. For a moment, he considered it. Just a few seconds, and his journals would never be seen again. The simplicity of the plan was beautiful, it was amazing to him that he hadn’t considered it before. Then the rest of him, the part that was Stanford F. Pines, recoiled, horrified. He couldn’t burn the journals! They were his life’s work! Sure, he admitted, he hadn’t spent a very long time as a scientist, but the journals were _his_ research, they were everything he’d done so far as a professional. They were they only thing separating him and anyone else who’d gone to Backupsmore, they were proof of his genius, they were... he couldn’t burn them, _wouldn’t_ burn them. He’d just have to find another solution. But he could do that, right? No problem. He just had to find something to do with his journals. So Bill, or his next pawn, couldn’t get his awful little hands on them. Hide them, maybe. Or encrypt them. Give them away, lock them away, put- 

He yawned. What- oh. It was almost midnight. That was the thing about basements, you didn’t have to think about things like time. He moved reluctantly into the lift, pressing the button for the ground floor. 

On the ground floor, Ford pushed his way past a large stack of papers and into the living room. He could clearly hear rain, and looking out the window he could see rain. Beyond that, dark woods as far as the eye could see. Ford found himself pausing at the window to peer into the woods. Was something there? Just past where he could see - something moving? A large, black shape. A deer, maybe? One of his cryptids? Something… else?

...Or were his eyes playing tricks on him? Stanford yanked the curtains shut. _You’re fine,_ he reminded himself. _You’ve spent the last year living here, obviously nothing’s going to get you in your own home._ He decided, though he couldn’t stop thinking, to go to bed like he’d intended. Nothing was going to hurt him. He was fine. 

He got as far as the stairs leading up before he remembered. Bill couldn’t get to him here, in the material world. He’d withdrawn his consent to their deal - perhaps not the most deontologically correct course of action, but it stopped him from using Ford’s body like an open door. Ford was safe, so long as he was awake. 

But the dreamscape wasn’t Ford’s dimension, was it? It was Bill’s. Lucid dreaming could be useful, sure, but Bill claimed to have no weaknesses. Could Ford really hope to take him on in his own realm and win? He didn’t feel like finding out. And besides, eight hours could feel like eight years, in a dream. There was a lot Bill could do to dissuade him from taking down his portal in that time. Ford knew you couldn’t feel pain in a dream, everyone knew that, but it didn’t mean dreams couldn’t go bad. 

Stanford shuddered. No, to go to sleep would mean opening himself up to any number of threats. He’d purged his basement of Bill, but those Bills had been easy, they hadn’t been the real thing. His odds against his former muse weren’t nearly as good. Ford sighed. There was a clear solution, if a temporary one. 

_Well._ If that was what it took, that was what it took. 

Stanford began to make himself a pot of coffee. Outside, it continued to rain.


	2. Tuesday

Stanford Pines took a sip from his coffee, hands shaking. He’d been up all night on 2 cups of black coffee, and then, just to be on the safe side, 2 more cups. Better to be jittery than to risk any amount of shut-eye. It didn’t matter if he was okay, after all. Just that he was awake. 

Ford sat in the kitchen of his house, drumming his fingers frantically against the table. The room was cluttered, like it always was. A barely-used stove sat near a microwave, which had been recently repaired after the eyeball-bat incident. Most of the time, the room looked lived-in, almost homey. At the moment, it seemed depressed, due mostly to the lack of natural light - Ford had spent the past night closing curtains and boarding up windows. You couldn’t be too careful when your opponent was an all-seeing dream demon. 

Ford finished his coffee and placed the mug in the sink to clean later (read: when he ran out of clean mugs), balancing it precariously on top of four other mugs. That was breakfast, done with. Now to get back to his work. He’d rid the house of Bill Cipher symbolism yesterday - art covered up, carvings crossed out, upstairs windows smashed with a crowbar. No one was looking any more, as far as he knew. He could finally start figuring out what to do with his journals. 

He returned to the kitchen table. Pushing a jar of enchanted moths to the side to make room, he spread his journals out on the table. He’d done some thinking about what to do with them all - there was a safe in his bedroom, he could hide them in the bunker, he could bury them somewhere. Whatever he’d do to them, he’d have to do it quickly. The last thing he wanted was to come back from hiding his journals only to find some puppet of Bill’s in his basement, using the portal. And another thing - he’d have to use different hiding places for each book. You never wanted to put all your eggs in one basket. 

That left him with simple hiding places. Within, let’s say, a few miles of his house. Nothing too complicated to set up. He frowned. If it were up to him, they wouldn’t be inside Gravity Falls at all. His journals would be scattered across the globe, in swiss vaults and well-guarded pocket dimensions and buried miles into a nondescript desert. But it wasn’t up to him, it was up to his resources, and all he really had was his research and what was left of his grant money. He could give his journals to someone else, to take them far, far away from this town, only there was no one he could trust. Any normal town member was as likely as not to be under Bill’s control, and if they weren’t yet then they would be. How do you pay someone to undertake a dangerous mission when the opposition can offer a galaxy? No, there wasn’t a soul in the world he could trust with any of his journals. He’d have to hide them himself, even if it meant leaving them where Bill could get to them. There simply wasn’t...

Wait. Come to think of it, there were a few people. 

Fiddleford, of course, was a natural choice. No one knew better than him what dread thing lurked behind the portal, so there was no way Bill could convince him to stray from his mission. He was smart, he was capable, he was someone Ford had worked with before. And he probably hated Stanford, not that Ford blamed him. He’d lied to him, ignored his warnings, told him any “triangle men” he was seeing was just a figment of his imagination until he was convinced he was going crazy. There wasn’t anything he could say to Fiddleford, really, that would be enough. 

Ford thought about the other person he knew. Had known. Ford certainly didn’t know him anymore, hadn’t said a word to him in over 10 years. Not that that was his fault, he was a liar who’d almost destroyed his future. Still, he couldn’t help but feel a twinge of guilt at the thought of calling in his brother for help. After all this time, to see him again just to send him off to some foreign country. Assuming his brother would even want to help him out. 

But then… 

Ford remembered a time when he and his brother hadn’t been so far apart. They’d been friends - they’d been  _ there  _ for each other - through thick and thin. Things were different now, so many years in the future. But that time Stanley would have done anything for him wasn’t  _ that  _ far away. Maybe it could happen again, unlikely as it seemed. Maybe Stanley could do him a favor. Maybe his brother could help him out, like he used to do. Would it really be so crazy if he tried to contact his brother? 

Ford leaned to the side, opened the fridge, and pulled out his handset - in addition to the already disorganized state of the house, Bill had a penchant for putting things where they didn’t belong. Including himself in Ford’s life. Ford allowed himself to chuckle at this, before plugging in the phone and picking it up to get Stan’s address from the operator. 

005 Dead End Flats, huh? A place so cheap their phones were purely decorative. He’d have to reach out to his brother the slow way.

Ford sighed. He knew how Stanley was doing, he knew Stan was too proud to take some barnacle-scraping job and not smart enough to get any kind of apprenticeship or vocational school, and he knew Stanley hadn’t been kicked out with anything more than his car and a duffel bag of clothes, but he still didn’t like having to see what had happened to his brother laid out in one line of address. He’d been right about Stan, in the years he’d managed to convince himself that Stan was a moron who’d wanted to sabotage his work, but it wasn’t a good kind of right. Stan was his brother. It hurt. 

Ford shook his head. Clock was ticking. He reached under his chair, where a postcard sat perched on an old physics textbook. He removed a pen from his pocket, clicked it once, twice, three times. He wrote a letter, a long and detailed letter, explaining the situation he was in and apologizing deeply, though he didn’t know why (it’s not like Stanley was going to judge him for something he could barely understand), ending it all with another vague apology that he couldn’t help inserting a few big words into. He scanned it for spelling mistakes, though he knew he hadn’t made any. Then he crumpled it into a ball, and tossed it into the sink, where it dissolved into a sticky mass of sludge. 

There were  _ so many  _ ways a letter could go wrong. A postman to take the letter, a postman to sort it at the post office, another one to drive it to a different post office, and so on. And even if Bill  _ didn’t  _ do anything to one of the many weak links in the postal chain, he’d still be able to see the letter. Anything Ford wrote, Bill read. There were very few people that needed to see his regret over building the portal, the sheer volume of his newfound self-hatred for being so stupid and gullible and naive, and Bill was not one of those people. Not to mention, he didn’t think Bill wanted anyone other than a select few knowing just how weird Gravity Falls could be. Better write a letter that will actually reach its destination. 

_ Dear Stanley. I am writing to you because I have found myself - nay, the whole world to be in grave danger. I am afraid there is only so much I can reveal in a letter, but it is absolutely imperative that you  _

_ I’m sorry I can’t be more detailed, but I can’t risk it. You never know who’s reading your mail. Listen, I know this sounds crazy, and I know I haven’t seen you in years, but I need your help with  _

_ It’s your brother, Stanley. It’s Ford. I’ve gotten into some trouble and I don’t know who to trust. I need _

_ Stanley, I’m so sorry. I messed up, I messed it all up, I never thought I would  _

_ Please come!  _ _ \- Ford.  _

Ford tucked the postcard into his coat, to be mailed later.

Assuming Stanley came, at least one of his journals would make its way across the globe to become effectively unfindable. So that was nice. Even if a certain  _ someone  _ found the other two, which he’d probably do eventually, considering Ford was planning on hiding them within the town’s borders, he’d never get his pointy hands on journal number one. Ford had displayed an unusual amount of foresight when he’d built the portal - he’d split the instructions between the three journals. With one of them missing, no one would ever be able to use the portal again. That’s not to say Ford wasn’t going to hide the other two, though. He had been gullible, but he refused to be stupid. 

Now to actually do something about his other journals. 

Ford had thought about a lot of possible hiding places, and he’d settled on two: A hollow in a false tree, near his emergency bunker, and a local elementary school. The first was just practical sense - no one but him spent much time in his neck of the woods, and the odds of someone looking closely at one specific “normal tree” in a forest of normal trees were low. The second was smart for a different reason. Ford didn’t know the people of Gravity Falls very well, but he didn’t think they’d let an adult with long pupils, a creepy laugh, and a shovel anywhere near an elementary school. 

Ford chuckled at this mental image, and suddenly found himself yawning. Horrified, he poured himself a lukewarm mug of coffee and drained it as quickly as he could. His hands twitched. That was better. Safety first.

Shaking himself into what he hoped was alertness, he left the kitchen for the front door, stopping only to grab his crossbow off a nearby table and stuff it in his coat. He cautiously opened the door, looking around for signs of Bill, only to find none. The dawn rushed into his eyes, forcing him to squint and making his brain go fuzzy. Even so, he could see alright, and nothing and no one was anywhere near his house. 

Huh. He’d expected his yard to be different. He’d expected the trees near his house to be taller, or more shady. He’d expected his environment to match what had been happening, somehow, he’d expected it to twist into something more ominous, but it had done nothing of the sort. His yard was just his yard. Frosted-over, poorly mown grass fed into a trail, which was about a ten minute drive into town. Or a forty-five minute walk, if your car had been taken by a large, woods-dwelling cryptid. Ford buttoned his coat (it was the middle of winter) and sighed, remembering the reason he didn’t go into town often. He started to walk,yawning slightly. 

Forty-five minutes later, he was there. He’d seen nothing of interest, save for a suspicious-looking deer. They’d made tense eye contact for almost a full minute, before he’d fired at it with his crossbow and missed, prompting it to run off. It was the deer’s fault. What kind of deer just stares people down? For a moment, he’d been worried it had been- 

Enough of that. He’d gotten into town alright, and he had stuff to do. He could worry about deer when he was finished. Ford took a deep breath to steady his nerves, and looked around the town square. 

The square was large, and was centered around “town founder” Nathaniel Northwest. Ford had never found the time to investigate further, but he was almost certain Northwest hadn’t founded the town. Maybe he’d get on that after he finished cleaning up his portal. There were a lot of things he wanted to do, after that. Near the square was a police station, a church, and the post office. Most of the buildings around the square were people’s homes, though. Ford wondered what people for fun here, especially when the most interesting thing in sight was the water tower. Maybe that was why the whole place was so weird. Boredom is the mother of invention, after all. 

Ford spotted a few people roaming the square. The place was mostly empty this early in the morning, but some of the townsfolk liked to get up with the dawn. A young, incredibly broad lumberjack was situated on the other side of the square, doing pull-ups on a grocery store’s sign and causing it to buckle. What looked like one of his siblings watched. Elsewhere, on the ground beneath the Northwest statue, a police officer in his mid-20s was trying to make dust angels. Evidently, the weirdness in Gravity Falls wasn’t limited to its forests. Ford snorted. He felt safer already, knowing a sane, competent officer of the law would be able to protect him from Bill here. 

But Bill didn’t seem to be here. The pedestrians, strange as they were, were fully engrossed in their own lives. Not one of them had turned to stare at him when he’d entered the town square, not one of them had spoken to him in that maddening echo Bill seemed to have mastered. They were just people. Ford was safe. 

He shoved a hand into his coat, making sure his letter to his brother was there, and entered the post office. He could just drop the postcard in a box, sure, but he wanted it to get there fast. Bill had been holding off on taking… direct action, but he didn’t know how long he had until that changed. He couldn’t survive like this, not forever. He needed help, he needed someone who had his back. He needed his brother.

Despite the early hours, there was already a line of people waiting to mail packages or letters. A purple-haired young woman held a pie, gift-wrapped in a little bow. Behind her in line, a man dressed like a butler carried an expertly-wrapped package on a silver plate. A tired looking postman stood at the desk, handling the mail of a woman in a bonnet. 

All four of them, on Ford’s arrival, turned to look at him. He froze. Of course this was happening,  _ of course  _ he wouldn’t be able to mail a letter without incident. He didn’t know how, didn’t know it was even possible, but somehow four different people were under Bill’s control. He already knew what Bill was going to say to him.

“Did you really think-,” began the hypothetical triangle, cackling mid-sentence. “Did you  _ really think  _ you’d be able to get past me? Jesus, Sixer, I know you’re dumb, but this is ridiculous!” Then he’d probably try to maim Ford with a shard of glass or something. Just for kicks. 

Ford stared at the townspeople. They stared back, as if waiting for him to make the first move. They just… stood there. Ford scanned the room for weapons, potential threats, traps he hadn’t noticed. He could use his crossbow, but his hands were shaking so badly he didn’t think it would help. Then, about five seconds after he should have noticed, he finally got a good look at the townspeople’s eyes. They were round. 

Ford laughed nervously as he felt something tremendous come over him. Relief, but also a misplaced surge of adrenaline, like he’d almost been hit by a car and was just now realizing it. The people - the weird, human, not-possessed people continued to watch him, but not with what he’d previously guessed were hungry, eager glances. They were just curious. Gravity Falls was a small town, after all, and not one that got many visitors. He was a mysterious scientist living in their woods, and he’d only gone into town once or twice to set up grocery deliveries and get his house built. Obviously they were just ogling him for normal, non-Bill reasons, obviously, he was so stupid, why would he think otherwise, why was he so stupid, why was he so-

They were still staring at him. 

“Right,” Stanford muttered, still shaken. “Don’t mind me. Just, uh, just getting in line.” He shuffled into the line behind the butler, turning pink and staring at the ground. What a fascinating texture the floorboards were. 

After minutes of uncomfortable silence, it was Ford’s turn to step up to the postal desk. He fished his letter to Stanley out of his pockets, and passed it to the mailman along with a wad of cash. The mailman looked him up and down before taking the postcard and dropping it somewhere under his desk. The cash went into his pockets.

“Just to be clear, that’s the expedited type of mail, right?” Ford rubbed his palms together nervously. 

The mailman nodded. 

“I see. Thank you.” Ford sighed deeply, squeezing himself around the post office line (which now contained a huge, hulking lumberjack) and pushing through the doors. He’d gotten the letter mailed, which was certainly a relief. Now, for the other part of his plan. The part that was harder. And sketchier. And definitely more likely to get him questioned by the police, which would probably end with him defenseless in a prison cell, while his journals sat in a poorly guarded small-town evidence locker, where they could be stolen by anyone dumb enough to fall for Cipher’s bullshit. He’d done it - if he was the smartest person here (and he probably was, judging by the people he’d seen in the square) the townspeople wouldn’t stand a chance. 

Ford shuddered. He was a mysterious outsider, and he was about to visit an elementary school’s premises for mysterious reasons he couldn’t reveal to anyone. He really, really, could not afford to be seen. 

With that in mind, Ford removed a wrinkled, coffee-stained map from his pocket and set out for the elementary school. Ideally, he’d be doing this at night, but that was a good twelve or so hours away. Twelve hours from now, he could be dead, or in jail, or being kidnapped. He had to move fast. 

Speed-walking to the playground of the Gravity Falls Elementary School, Ford found himself facing a locked gate. He hadn’t thought the people here capable of such security, but it was fine with him. He’d brought a- wait. Ford shoved a hand into his coat, feeling every nook and cranny. There were a lot of things, but no lockpicking kit. It must have slipped his mind. Shit. 

He could wait for a teacher to come by - school started at 9:00, and it was 8:15 now. So the teachers were probably in the building already, not to mention: He had absolutely no reason to be standing around outside a playground. He could try to pick the lock with a bobby pin, but he didn’t have one. And if he was really at a loss, he could jump the fence. Ford looked around for possible solutions. Then, with a sigh, he took a few steps back, and leapt at the fence. 

The fence was not particularly high, and Ford was able to scale it without injury, tearing only a small strip off from his shirt. He looked around once he was down, making sure no one was watching, before kneeling and beginning to scrape at the ground with his hands. His stupid, sleep-deprived brain had failed to bring a shovel, because of course he had. He’d failed to get into the college of his choice, he’d fallen for Bill’s obvious flattery, he’d freaked out at some people at the post office, he’d forgotten to bring a lockpicking kit. And now this. 

Ford, idiot that he was, found himself taking out his anger on the ground. “Stupid,” he muttered. “You’re like Stanley,” he found himself muttering. He was a little surprised to find that that was the role his brother played in his mind, the example idiot. “Only at least Stanley never doomed humanity.” He huffed, digging deeper. Stanley would never have done what he did.  _ Stanley _ would have seen right away how much of a liar Bill was. Stanley had street-smarts, at least, if he didn’t have a large vocabulary. Look where a large vocabulary had gotten him. Kneeling in the dirt, digging a hole so he could ferret away his sins like they’d never even happened. He growled, partially at himself, and partially at… He didn’t know. The whole situation. That was sane, wasn’t it? Growling out loud. Stanford was going to go insane, if he didn’t get killed first. 

Ford chuckled. Why not both? He smiled, trying to steady himself, and looked at the hole he’d dug. Almost six inches deep, which was impressive given the tools he’d been working with. Though ideally, he’d have something more like three feet. He checked his watch - almost 8:25, and a bird in the hand was worth two in the bush. With that in mind, he removed his second journal from his coat (luckily, he’d remembered to seal it in a plastic container before he’d left the house, thus protecting it from insects and/or water damage) and placed it gingerly in the hole. He knew it had to happen, he knew every minute his journals weren’t hidden was a risky minute, he knew exactly what would happen if Bill or anyone else got their hands on them. But it still felt weird, saying goodbye to so many years of research. 

Ford thought he heard a car somewhere nearby. Frantically, he shovelled dirt into his hole with a broad gesture of the arm, packing it hurriedly on top. It wasn’t neatly filled in by any means, but with any luck, no one would question it. That done, he hopped the fence at lightning speed, scratching a part of his arm on the fence’s sharp top, and ran. 

Two or three blocks later, he finally stopped running. Panting outside a cafe that only sold bagels, he collapsed against a wall. He looked at the street around him with wide, sweeping glances, checking for anyone who might have followed him. He squeezed his hands into tight fists, then released them. Then again. He appeared to be in the clear, or at the very least, in a state of blissful ignorance. 

“Hey,” said a gruff voice from next to him.

Ford whirled around, finding himself face to face with a tall, brown-haired man. He wore a long apron with a logo on it, some kind of bagel being dunked in coffee. Underneath it he had a long-sleeved shirt on, and above that, on his face he had... Glasses.  _ Reflective  _ glasses. 

Ford reached into his coat for his crossbow with shaky hands, taking a few steps back. 

The bagel man frowned, perplexed. “What…?” 

Ah. So that was how Bill wanted to play this, was it? Pretending he was just some normal guy, capitalizing on Ford’s doubt, right up until he had him in a headlock and was gouging out his eyes. Ford growled. He didn’t think so. 

Now it was the bagel man’s turn to step away. Ford could see him looking almost alarmed as he moved towards the bagel shop’s door, not taking his eyes off of Ford. 

Ford saw himself reflected in the bagel man’s suspiciously mirrored sunglasses. A scruffy man with deep bags under his eyes and a wild-eyed stare, loitering outside a dining establishment. The kind of person you’d approach, not so you could maim him with your supernatural abilities, but so you could offer him some food in his time of need, or (more likely) so you could ask him to leave as he was scaring off other customers. Ford made what he hoped was apologetic eye contact with the bagel man. He removed his hand from his coat, to show him he wasn’t going to hurt him. Then, he ran. 

Ford ran for what felt like hours, straight through the town square and through the suburbs and into the woods. His legs felt sluggish, but he hauled them anyway, desperate to get out of town. What was  _ wrong  _ with him? Why had he done that? Was he losing his mind? 

No, no, he wasn’t. He was being melodramatic. He was fine _.  _ He’d just freaked out a little bit, which was fine, totally normal. Bill  _ was  _ stalking him after all. Maybe when things were safer for him, he’d be able to go back into town and explain everything. It had all just been a misunderstanding. Those things happened. 

And maybe he’d been wrong about other things, too. Bill haunted him, sure, but he hadn’t actually shown his pointy face to Stanford… at all, since he’d broken off their “friendship”. Maybe Bill actually did just want to see Ford try to disassemble his portal. The guy was chaotic, it wasn’t completely out of nowhere. And Ford was a scientist, after all. A scientist listened to data. And beyond that, beyond the evidence behind what was a pretty plausible theory - Ford was tired of being scared. He was tired of having to look over his shoulder, everywhere he went, never knowing where Bill could be hiding. 

Ford finally stopped running, slowing to a walk only minutes away from his house. Midday, in a relatively normal area, the woods were… lovely. Sunlight filtered peacefully through thick Oregon trees, creating a pleasant effect. Somewhere, he could hear a woodpecker. It was nice to take a break. Calming, even. 

Ford lived for a moment in this idyllic scene, with the forest replacing any and all worries about Bill. He wasn’t being chased by Bill, he decided. He’d been making it up. He didn’t have anything to worry about. He just had to hide his third journal, give the first one to his brother when he got here, dismantle the portal for good, and that was that. There wasn’t a time limit. He was fine. He was safe, and he was- 

Ford had made it to his house. The windows were boarded up, as he’d left them. The structure still stood. But the door, which he had left locked, barred, and warded, was ajar. It had not been kicked in or burned. It simply swung there, open, like a bad omen. Ford took a deep breath, shaking slightly, and held his crossbow like one would a flashlight. He carefully pushed the door open further, and stepped inside. 

The lights were off and the windows neutralized, but he could see clearly enough. Pile upon pile of stuff had been knocked over, spilling across the floor, and any kind of cabinet or storage chest he owned had been yanked open, contents rifled through with little regard for subtlety. Ford inhaled sharply at the sight of a hole in his fish tank, the glass forming jagged shards that appeared to be glistening with blood, likely obtained when someone had punched the tank with a bare fist. His pet axolotl had disappeared months ago, but if it hadn’t… Ford sighed. What kind of maniac punches an empty fish tank? He didn’t have to answer that. He already knew. 

In much the same way, Ford moved through the rest of his house, crossbow at the ready just in case Bill was still there. Stopping at his bedroom, where his mattress had been sliced into ribbons by a knife of some kind, he collapsed onto his bedroom armchair, now somehow much less stuffed. The rest of his house had received a similar treatment. There wasn’t a single object that hadn’t been rifled through, damaged, or tossed around by a pair of malicious little hands. 

Ford’s house had been ransacked - that much was obvious. But for what? Obviously, if Bill had been looking for something, he would have known where it was and simply taken it. And if it was the journals he was after… Bill was many things, but he wasn’t stupid. He never would have believed Ford would let the journals out of his possession. And he clearly hadn’t been looking for Ford, or he’d still be in the house, waiting for just the right moment, wherein he’d jump at Ford from behind and somehow pin him down and then take out a knife and go to work on his hands… Ford grimaced. Bill could very easily have found him by now, a fact that continued to haunt his every waking moments, but in this specific instant it was good, because it meant Bill hadn’t ransacked his house just for him. 

But then, what if it hadn’t been Bill? What if some burglar had just happened to- 

Even Ford found that laughable, and he hadn’t been in a light mood for weeks. 

No, his house had been ransacked by Bill. Not for objects or for him, but as a sort of intimidation tactic - hence the open door, the obvious signs of searching. Bill wanted him to know he was out there, he wanted him to know he could and would invade his home. 

Ford let out a dry, bitter laugh. 

All his paranoia hadn’t been misplaced. He’d been  _ right _ ! 

He lay there for a moment, trapped between fear and vindication. Then, Stanford stood up. Bill was going to come back, he was almost completely sure. And he wanted to be prepared, for Bill’s return but also for his brother’s arrival. He couldn’t have the house looking like this, he’d look like a maniac. And he wasn’t a maniac, he was sane, incredibly sane, he’d been right about Bill. Not to mention, he didn’t like how much control Bill had gotten over his house. It was his house, and if it was going to be messy, it was going to be messy on his terms, damnit! 

He picked up a piece of paper from the ground, and started to put it together with the papers that had been in the same folder with it. His hands twitched, but he was adamant. He was going to get his house back, no matter what.


	3. Wednesday

Ford had finally finished putting his house back together after  _ someone  _ had ransacked it. He frowned. Should he say Bill? The name made him shudder, sure, but maybe it was best to get it out of his system. Jumping at shadows, scared of his own thoughts. That wasn’t the kind of person he wanted to be, even if it was the person he’d been lately. Could he blame himself? Having to deal with Bill’s- He shuddered. Damnit. He had to stop doing that. 

Anyway, Ford had finally managed to reassemble his house. It wasn’t perfect, and a lot of things, like his fish tank, couldn’t be repaired so much as covered with a tarp. But out of sight, out of mind, and for the most part, his home was back to normal. The files, at least, had been put back in their original positions. And it had only taken the majority of his day, meaning it was now… 11:29. Ford glared at his watch for a good twenty seconds. It was now 11:30. That was better. Even numbers were solid, reliable. Numbers he could trust. So much for his day, though. House cleaning had its benefits, and had made him feel at ease, but there was so much he hadn’t done. He hadn’t hidden his third journal, or disposed of any of his nuclear waste, or… eaten. Anything. All day. 

Stanford snorted. It was funny, actually. Like when he’d been a kid, getting so invested in an essay or in studying for a test he’d just forget to eat. Stanley started picking up on this, though, and the third or fourth time he’d gotten that engrossed in whatever he was doing, Stan would slip a sandwich on top of his homework. 

“What, you’re smart enough to study but not smart enough to eat?” Stanley would always tease him, and Ford would laugh, and eat the sandwich, and complain about getting crumbs all over his textbooks. Ford was living by himself now, though, and with Fiddleford gone he had to feed himself. 

He hoped Stanley got his letter, and soon. He needed his brother, if only so he could take his journal and go. Even a frantic five minutes with Stanley would be nice. It would be nice just to see him again. 

He didn’t need Stanley, another part of his brain pointed out. He’d gotten this far without his help. 

That’s right, he added bitterly. He’d gotten all the way to the phase of his research where he’d been tricked into almost starting the end of the world. He really was the most brilliant mind of his generation. 

Ford stood up and headed for the kitchen. He couldn’t do many things without screwing them up and dooming humanity, but he could make himself sandwiches. 

His sandwich was terrible. It wasn’t the worst, but it was pretty bad as far as sandwiches went. The bread was nice, at least, sort of a fluffy rye that he’d  burnt toasted with an experimental toaster of his. And that was it, that was his sandwich. When - Ford sighed - Bill had wrecked his house, he’d also treated himself to just about everything in Ford’s fridge, even the expired stuff. That left Ford with a loaf of bread he’d accidentally placed in his freezer a few weeks back, and that he’d found with only a few shallow tooth marks in it, as it had likely been too frozen for Bill. That was all the food he owned, a fact he’d somehow forgotten until it was time to make himself an awful dinner.

After a few more slices of bland, mediocre bread, he admitted to himself that he needed to get more food. His loaf wouldn’t last forever, and it was already down to four or five slices. That was maybe a day of food, if not less. He supposed he wouldn’t die without food in the couple of days it took Stanley to get there, but he was already depriving himself of sleep in an effort to keep Bill out, and he didn’t think he could go without both. So he had to get more food. He could… 

Buy more food. Or at least, he could do that if that didn’t mean going into town, surrounding himself with potential Bill puppets. Not to mention, he felt like he was gaining quite the reputation as a paranoid weirdo. Which he was, but it was still nerve-wracking. Not to mention, he hadn’t slept in several days and he had every reason to be terrified of large groups of people when Bill could be behind any one of them. He didn’t want to crossbow an innocent person, thinking they were Bill, like he’d almost done the last time he was in town. He also didn’t like the idea of leaving his crossbow at home for the safety of others, only for Bill to grab him from behind and drag him into an abandoned building somewhere. He was never going anywhere near that town again. So he wasn’t going to buy more food. 

But he did have a bunker. It would be insane to go back there after his shapeshifter had gotten loose, but he’d sealed it in his lab. Which meant he could get anything he’d left in the first room of his bunker. And he’d stockpiled vast amounts of canned meat. Canned meat he realized, now, would be useless in an actual apocalypse considering it had calories, but none of the vitamins humans needed to survive. But he could get through the rest of the week on a box of canned meat, at least. That was enough, that was about how long it would take Stanley to get there. He didn’t have to make it forever, just long enough for Stanley to get there. 

That was a dark thought. He wasn’t going to die, nobody was going to kill him. Right? 

Stanford left the kitchen for the woods, looking carefully around for any signs of movement. It was, after all, the middle of the night. Anything could happen. 

But nothing  _ would  _ happen, he reminded himself. He was going to be just fine. 

He patted a pocket of his coat, feeling the familiar shape of his crossbow, and did his best to not think about the fact that Bill could be anywhere, at any moment, watching him. It didn’t work. His flashlight was strong, but not strong enough to outshine the looming sense of dread every unlit space created. Anything could be in those dark places.

After what felt like a dark, terrifying eternity, Ford made it to the “tree” where he’d built his bunker. He was fine. Completely surrounded on all sides by bushes, within which any number of puppets could be lurking, waiting for him to lower his guard. But that was fine. He was never going to lower his guard. As it was, he stood with his back against the steel tree, clutching his crossbow and flashlight with six white knuckles, trying to calm himself down. Look, just normal bushes. Nothing weird, nothing to worry about. Was that a rustling? No, it wasn’t a rustling. He was safe. And fine. Now, to open his bunker. 

Ford tried to remember how that worked, exactly. He hadn’t thought about or visited the bunker in months, and he was constantly forgetting things to make room for new information. Or maybe, someone had removed that information from his brain. Someone with the power to manipulate his memories, someone who would want to mess with him. Ford gripped his crossbow tighter. That wasn’t what had happened. He’d just forgotten. Reluctantly, he removed his third journal from a pocket and began to flip through it, keeping one eye on the bushes in case a certain someone had been waiting for the chance to jump out and grab it from him. 

He found the page in his journal mentioning the bunker, which seemed to suggest the way to get in was… to pull a lever, a good fifteen feet off the ground. If only he hadn’t left his magnet gun in the attic. Of course. He really was stupid. If he’d thought- 

Well, no use giving up now. He took a few steps towards the edge of the clearing, then leapt at the lever, bashing his shoulder against the hard metal in the process. He ended up more than a few feet short. Staggering backwards, Ford tried again, to no avail. He then tried taking off his belt and trying to hook the lever, angrily throwing his belt at the lever, and finally, awkwardly hugging the tree and shambling up it until he could just barely reach the lever. He then slid down the tree, scraping his arms, and collapsed on the ground as it lowered to give him access to the bunker. He was in, at any rate. He flipped a light switch on the wall next to him.

The bunker was as he remembered it, albeit a little more worn down. Concrete walls, a thin mattress. A weapons cabinet stood in the corner, near a tin “fallout shelter” sign. He’d built the bunker fairly recently, but it already seemed as though it was from another time. He’d really stockpiled weapons in his bunker, as if the most dangerous thing he could be hiding from was some kind of monster. Ha. He turned his attention to one wall of the bunker, where shelves upon shelves of canned meat stood tall. He’d apparently stocked enough to last past 2070, something he now found almost laughable in the face of his certain death. Unless something changed dramatically, he wasn’t going to make it 90 years. He didn’t know if he’d make it one more year, to be honest. He just had to destroy his portal and hide the journals, he just had to make it that long. He shook his head. Focus on the present. He had the food. Focus on that. 

Ford grabbed a crate of meat and turned towards the stairs. The outdoors seemed a lot less appealing, now that he thought about it. It was dark, and just about anything could be hiding in the unseen spaces. Or anyone. He’d made it to his bunker without incident, but could the same be said for his return trip? Ford sighed - his brain knew it was crazy, he knew no one was actually going to knock him unconscious and take his journals, doodling a triangle on one of his hands so he knew who it was when he woke up tied to a tree - but the rest of him knew that someone was out there, and no amount of logic would convince him otherwise. 

It really was dark out there. Night was the time of dreams, as well as being a time where he’d be unable to see assailants. He’d really gone outside in the middle of the night, risking his journals and his life for nothing more than a food run. What had he been thinking? No, now that he was here, he’d be a lunatic to try and make it back to the house. The bunker, though, was well-lit and had only two entrances, one of which was unlikely to be used any time soon. It also had blast doors, and weapons, and a lifetime’s supply of medical supplies stuffed under its admittedly terrible bed. 

Why hadn’t he thought of this sooner? He still needed to hide his second journal, obviously, and he had a lot of work to do on his portal, but his bunker was a safe place to stay. It was all becoming clear to him. He’d wait out the night in his bunker, and once the sun came up, he’d hide his second journal in a false tree in the woods, like he’d originally planned. Following that, he’d finish taking down his portal, and then?

Bill had a long memory, but an incredibly short attention span. Ford could hide in his bunker, safe, and the whole thing would blow over in a year or so. He’d be able to return to his life, whatever that meant. Things were going to work out. 

In the mean time, Ford checked his watch. It was 12:18, or as he preferred to think of it, 12:20. The sun would rise at about seven, at which point he’d be clear to go back to his house, likely with a few crates of meat. He removed one of his crates,  _ 2002 _ , from his set of shelves, and took the book he’d stashed there. It was going to be a long night.

Ford liked the weird sci-fi, transcendental books that made the reader feel smart. When he couldn’t get that, he also enjoyed cheap action stories where the hero fights squid overlords or evil emperors, usually using a ray gun. That said,  _ The Hitchhiker’s Guide To The Galaxy  _ wasn’t really his cup of tea - Fiddleford had given him a copy at some point, and he’d shoved it behind a crate in the bunker. “I’m not going to let myself be bored in the apocalypse,” he’d insisted, knowing full well that Fiddleford’s accusations of ‘trying to get rid of it’ were correct. But now that he’d actually ended up reading it, he was glad he’d put it there.

He’d started trying to read it in his bed, which was more of a mattress on a pallet than anything, but when he’d felt his eyes getting heavy, he’d moved to a chair. Eventually, the chair started to get comfortable, and he’d stood up. When his legs went numb, he’d paced around the room for a bit, and so on. By the time the sun came up, he’d read the _ Hitchhiker’s Guide  _ at least three times, desperate for something to distract him, keep him alert. More than once, he’d shone his flashlight directly into his own eyes, dug his nails into his skin, and done jumping jacks. It had worked, at no point had he fallen from vigil into Bill Cipher’s realm, but after seven hours of waiting around he felt awful. His eyes ached, his legs hurt, and multiple times he’d finished reading a page only to realize he had no idea what had just happened in the story. Even now, he barely remembered the book he was holding. He’d been awake for over 24 hours, and he’d done that before, but he’d never really realized how important the little naps in between were. He was falling apart at the seams, had been for a few days, but he’d always had caffeine as a sort of padding. Now he just wanted to sleep, despite the obvious danger.

What was he doing? Reading- No, he was going to walk back home now that the sun was up. He picked up a crate of canned meat and dutifully started up the stairs, every rattle of the cans jolting him awake. The walk to his house, at least, was well-lit. The woods were a lot less scary when you could see there was nothing there. It was as he’d thought: Normal forest, nothing weird lurking there. Just trees, and plants, and- Wait. 

Someone stood in a bush, in the corner of his eye. A distinct human figure, though he couldn’t quite make it out. He dropped his cans, trying to ignore the fact that they’d landed on his feet, and whirled around to face them. 

The cans were heavy, and didn’t agree with his sudden movement. He fell backwards as he reached for his crossbow. Pointing it at the bush, panting heavily, he looked up at the person he’d seen, and saw… 

No one. Nothing and no one was there. He must be seeing things now. Great. He stayed like that for a moment, not daring to move, before scrambling onto his feet and tucking away his crossbow. He picked up his cans and turned back towards his house. Maybe he was going crazy, after all. Being alone was bad for the brain. As was sleep deprivation. As was living in a constant state of necessary paranoia. Ford wouldn’t be surprised if his IQ dropped a point or two after all this. Assuming he survived long enough for there to be an “after all this”. 

His head hurt. The sun was bright. Nearly there. 

He made it to his house, not that he remembered making his way there. He placed his crate of meat on his kitchen table. Ford sat at his kitchen table, triumphantly. Then drowsily. But he couldn't fall asleep, not now. He had to... save... the world...

His head collided with the table, hard.


End file.
